


Intertwine

by kalika_999



Series: Jack and Brock's misadventures [68]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Diners, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, On the Run, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 07:16:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18245012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/pseuds/kalika_999
Summary: Sometimes with his book in place he would just close his eyes and soak it all in, let himself believe for a moment there’snormalityfor once.





	Intertwine

“Didn’t know you’d keep hauntin’ greasy spoons while on the run.” 

The familiar voice is a soft mumble, almost under their breath. The sound of it makes something jump and quicken within Jack, bouncing off muscle and bone and invading every inch of his body. That voice is the same as when Jack last heard it, a little gravely but always his. He breathes in, picking up that unforgettable scent of stale body spray and some things never changed he supposed, eyes not lifting off words across a page in his beaten down paperback.

It wasn’t really much of a habit anyone could pick out from something like his file anyway, maybe only a couple people knew about his soft spot for diners, the nostalgia and quiet of it. A place somewhere outside of the home without really sacrificing the solitude if he was perched in on late at night. It smelled so familiar to him, _he thinks_..not entirely sure anymore but he likes it all the same. He’s more confident now of being out in the open with his hair cut a little shorter, not styled back and a little tousled, a rusty colored beard trimmed short and neat over his face. 

Back when he was living in DC he spent a lot of time in diners late at night if he could afford the time away, either alone or with Brock tagging along albeit it complaining all the way there and back as well as in between. Brock really only settled when he got a decent cup of coffee and sometimes Jack could get him to down some pancakes without the usual spout about it being ‘not on his diet’ or some bullshit like that. He’d gripe and then ask for blueberry topping on it because if he was going to break routine, he was going all the way. 

When Jack was alone he took in a slower route with his time in any of them, absorbing the familiar sounds of low jazzy music, sometimes 50’s retro stuff, or if he was lucky to get there, he was really attached to one place that played only 80’s hits. There’d also be the chime of cutlery and the clatter of cups over top of amicable conversation around him that he enjoyed. Sometimes with his book in place he would just close his eyes and soak it all in, let himself believe for a moment there’s _normality_ for once especially when a mission had gone terribly wrong or he had been told to do something that didn’t entirely sit right with him. That was something that had been happening a lot with him the past few years before all the shit went to hell.

Even then it didn’t take everything away. He’d still go home smelling of blood and gunpowder, hear screams from people that didn’t belong there because they didn’t know better, sometimes they had to make _decisions_. Sometimes those decisions would force him to rethink the scene over and over again. Make him wonder if he should have done something different. He’d get looks, hands resting on his shoulder that were supposed to console him, especially because they considered him a _decent guy_ for what it was all worth, pander to some ego he never had with that stuff. He wasn’t. They weren’t either. It took him way too long to figure that out and now he was on the run.

Everything he did was a lie and when they finally showed themselves it was too late to say no. Instead it was one last job, one last _push_ , one last _something_ and he would get away. Run from everyone, even Brock because he deserved better, as cowardly as it was. Jack couldn’t give him the care he’d need, he was a wanted man that should have left the country but having feelings for someone was so stupid..so fucking stupid..

An index finger tentatively runs over the butter knife across from him, mottled burn scars across the back of the hand and just barely hiding away under the sleeve of a thick, heavy peacoat. Jack stares too long but not from horror, more because he _cannot_ , he just wants to watch like he does when he sneaks in past doctors and nurses and security. When he stays for a stray few minutes before he’s gone again and makes sure when he’s asleep. He stares. 

In all honestly Jack’s surprised he’s being allowed to see instead of hiding behind gloves or anything to conceal it, as vain as he can be sometimes. He’s just _showing_ him and all Jack feels is that he should know he doesn’t care about them. Perhaps that’s why they’re on display between them so closely.

Legs stretch out, shoes nudging against his own and to Jack’s slight surprise they don’t pull away they only stay, linger and lean against his. It makes him swallow dryly.

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever find me.” They’re not in DC anymore, actually Jack doesn’t even remember the name of the city limits he’s outside of when he found this roadside diner. He doesn’t look up from his book, for all he knows Captain fucking America could be standing at the front door blocking his exit and sending Brock to negotiate in case they think Rollins is crazy enough to shoot up an eatery before he’s arrested. “How did you find me?” 

Brock scoffs a little but pauses when a waitress strolls over tapping a pencil lightly against a small pad of paper.

“What can I get ya, Honey?” 

“He wants a black coffee.” 

The foot against his leans in a little more, barely there pressure like a hand on a shoulder.

Popping her gum, she nods as she scribbles it down. “Anything to eat?” 

Brock keeps his head low, the hood of a heavy black sweater concealing most of his face from her. “Not right now, Darlin’.”

Jack waits a breath before he lets his gaze sweep up to that face ahead of him, light barely catching thick, red scar tissue across his face, one side worse off than the other. 

Lips form into a snarled smirk as eyes meet. “That’s the million dollar question, ain’t it? And of all the time I’ve known ya, ain’t think I’d ever see you be a ginger at any point.” Brock comments, pausing with a small short laugh. “ _Figures_. Them’s the evil ones ya know. Knew there was a bad streak in ya, Rawls.”

It’s not really the answer he was looking for and Brock goes quiet, foot shifting against his like he’s reminding him he’s there even though Jack would never allow himself to forget. He wonders if he should take a look over his shoulder for any sign of a trap as the waitress comes back with Brock’s cup of coffee and tops his own up at the same time before shes off again. It’s just difficult for him to wrap his head around the fact that two fugitives are sitting in a booth together and no one is even batting an eye to it. 

Brock only takes his coffee to his lips and has a contemplative sip before setting it down again, fingers tracing the fork this time around. “You came to visit a few times, I know.” 

Jack wasn’t sure, he was never convinced Brock was aware. He never opened his eyes while machines worked for him or when he was sleeping on his own and Jack sat in the shadows watching. He’d only stay for a few minutes, afford himself that much of a luxury before he was gone, holed up in some shithole motel staring at a bare bulb on a chain hoping to drown it all out and fall asleep. 

Reaching into his pocket, Brock places an origami lion down between them. It’s a little crumbled and worn but he still has it. It’s all that really matters. “And the times I wasn’t sure, you always left somethin’ so I knew, either way.” 

Jack supposes that was the point, even though he never really planned it that way. The first time he came in it was just so damn _sterile_ and empty. The second time he showed up he left the lion, he supposed Brock would have known immediately. He’s not the first and probably not the last to call Brock that but he’s the only one that makes him smile over it no matter how much he makes a face about it. 

He feels that warm familiar sensation growing in his belly, that dull ache that follows him retreating with Brock just inches away, touching inconspicuously under the table. He doesn’t look that much different from when he saw him last, it’s when he left a small tiny snow globe then, a miniature cabin nestled between frosted pine trees within it. It caught his eye in a thrift store and he was buying it before he really put much thought into it. Wasn’t even sure Brock would remember that very specific conversation, half out of his mind dipping into shock and bleeding out of his belly from a gunshot wound while Jack tried to keep him awake as they waited for an evac. He told him about a dream he had while they were surrounded by endless layers of snow; it reminded him of it, the dream with a cabin and how he wanted to go there and live out his life. He didn’t want to be stuck in the city but out in the wilderness, in all the quiet and solace. He told Brock how he was there too, Jack promised him the world as long as he didn’t close his eyes. 

He wants to reach over and grasp those fingers like he’d never allowed himself to all those visits, worried he wouldn’t leave if he did. But now here, out in the open, it seemed almost like he should but he fights it off. They still shouldn’t be out here. 

Jack licks his lips and watches the moment Brock tilts his head to follow the motion with his eyes.

“How did you get out of there?” He asks softly and it takes a moment for Brock to stop staring at his mouth. Copper brown eyes darting back to his and he smiles wryly, not at all afraid of how he looked a second ago.

“The same way ya got in.”

“You’d think with guys like us, they would know better.” He tries not to sound bitter, it’s no one’s fault but their own how they got into this all. Fresh faced and ready to fight, make a difference. When they finally realized they had it all wrong, it was too late for them. Now all he had was himself and perhaps Brock, his voice sounds old and Jack is so very tired of running in circles.

The light catches a clench of Brock’s jaw, reacting to his tone and heavy gaze reading it all across Jack’s face. “They catch us, they gonna lock us up in the Raft, Jackie. No way we’ll get outta there. Not right away anyway.”

The Raft. He’s quite sure he could handle it, it makes sense to be put there, sharing space with others as despicable and as horrible as they were. It’s fitting but he’s not sure if it’s wise to put Brock in there with his needs and if Jack lost track of where he was-

The hand on the table wraps around his wrist, tight and sure. Jack lets him, peering back at him questioningly. Brock doesn’t waste time, turning out his wrist and sliding his hand over palm, entwining fingers like they did sometimes. Mainly it happened between sheets shrouded in darkness as Jack whispered all of his secrets in his native tongue against Brock’s ear while they pressed in together. There were other times too, quiet and calm times Jack sometimes thinks about when he feels alone.

Despite what people may think of him in the observation department, Brock’s always been able to read Jack. He went out of his way to make sure he did. It took Jack a long time to get that too.

There’s a delay in how long it takes for Jack to realize he’s being touched, by Brock of all people. He _knows_ , but didn’t entirely process the gravity of it. He never had being touched in the forefront of his mind when he was so wrapped up in not touching Brock in fear of not letting go. Now however, when his brain is telling him to pull away and consider things properly, Jack’s too busy focusing on just the simple concept of holding hands. He doesn’t know how to let go when it comes to him.

“Let’s go,” Brock announces abruptly like he was ignorant of Jack’s ongoing struggle, pulling his hand away and dropping a few crumpled bills beside barely touched coffee as he rose to his feet. Jack’s still staring at him in awe when he turns and grabs his hand, pulling him urgently instead of just as a request, “I got a place and if I found ya, it won’t be long before someone else does _and me_.” 

Jack looks at him, rising up after him with a look of concern. “You have a place around here?”

Brock smirks, leading him outside. “In Pennsylvania, it ain’t forever but it’s somethin’. You ain’t the only one who had contingency plans Jackie.”

“Is it safe?” He doesn’t mean to sound concerned because this is _Brock_ , but he has to make sure for the both of them.

He gets a stubborn look, fingers tightening around his, bandages rubbing against his skin as they head for whatever Brock drove over in. “Come with me, you can do a full sweep and tell me if ya think it’s safe. If ya don’t think so, we go. Deal? Already know how it’s gonna go, you’ve been doin’ it all this time Jackie and we’ve done it before. Ain’t the safest place gonna be right under their noses like how you jus were?”

“This is a little bigger than before Brock, with the two of us together.” Jack’s eyes sweep around the parking lot and across the long stretch of road ahead of them. They approach a beaten down old beamer and suddenly he’s stopping in his tracks, unsure of everything. Of course, as always, Brock only adjusts to move in when he stops and refuses to follow anymore, turning to study him with a hard stare. Jack shakes his head, slipping his hand away from Brock’s only to grab him by the forearm and hold it up between them, thick ropey scars under his calloused fingers. “I can’t take care of you like they can. Even in prison you’ll be treated better than hiding out with me. We aren’t standing out here talking about a simple bullet wound or dislocated shoulder, you _need_ your medication.”

Brock watches him carefully, his eyes dark under the hood, narrowing. 

Jack doesn’t blink, he plays this game a lot with him. “I don’t want to see you in pain.”

Taking a pointed step forward, always challenging him, Brock pulls his wrist in his grip, sliding his arm downwards. He’s still locked as he threads their fingers together carefully, his palm feels different against Jack’s but the hold is familiar.

“You don’t fuckin’ get it. They lock me in there, I might as well be dead. Can’t lose ya, Jackie. I’ve told ya this so many times I thought it was burned into your thick skull already.” 

“ _Brock_.” It pains him to be this close to Brock, to be touching him and trying to offer an out that he should take without looking back but doesn’t.

“I know, _I know_.” He whispers, and leans in to press their mouths together.

Jack’s entire being feels like he’s sinking in quicksand and tied down with a boulder just to make it stick. He can’t move and Brock’s lips are dry but he’s gentle because he can’t help himself. Jack takes his time to react so Brock thinks about what he’s doing if he really runs away with him.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s given himself something he’s wanted so badly despite keeping a vigil for Brock. All he’s ever kept close to his heart was this person before him asking for them to stay together while everything in his power tells him he shouldn’t. That he’ll only ruin Brock more than he already has.

Unfortunately Jack is also weak when it comes to Brock, that hasn’t changed apparently. Maybe always made for him, always been his shadow and if time or physical appearance hasn’t changed his mind, he’s sure nothing will. He gives in, his lips going pliant and eases into the kiss. He leans in with a small amount of pressure and cradles Brock’s jaw with one hand, drawing him in closer. Jack parts Brock’s lips with his tongue, lets them catch and slide against each other with that distant familiarity and their little kiss turns long, slow and wet.

When he draws away Brock’s eyes are hazy and he only goes with him when Jack moves to put space between them. Jack anchors him, that’s something they both figured out early on; it takes a couple of blinks and a lick of lips for Brock to snap back, and they share a stupid teenage laugh together before Jack leans in for another quick kiss.

“Let’s go.” He mumbles against flushed lips while Brock’s fingers tighten gradually around his jacket.

This time Brock draws back to look up at him, “Yeah?” He pauses and blinks slowly, expression shifting back to that determination Jack was met with. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

*****

He doesn’t realize he’s been asleep until he jerks awake to a hand shaking his shoulder and it’s gotten dark outside. He’s missed an entire day of light and there’s a low hum of _Violin Concerto No.3_ playing away on the radio; Brock leans in close, warmth radiating off him and their eyes meet. “You play dirty, Brock.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, pleased. “Gonna tell me you’ve been sleepin’ so well that ya didn’t need it?”

“You hate classical music.” He mutters back as if that’s an excuse. He yawns one last time before a hand comes up to rub at his eyes.

“I hate those bags you been carryin’ under yer eyes more. Fuckin’ idiot.” 

It’s said with so much fondness and Jack smiles tiredly at him.

Looking past him to see why they’ve stopped, a rundown apartment building loomed before them. It’s old and made of brick, almost industrial looking, peeling paint around window panes and stains of rust along iron. The steps leading up to the heavy duty doors are deteriorating, partially crumbled at the corner and where there used to be a railing, now there isn’t. He does happen to spy the security cameras, wires torn and the actual bodies tampered with so he’s quite certain they’re not operational, that moment of hesitation only makes Brock chuckle with a shake of his head. 

“I always check ‘em. No one around ‘ere wants ‘em workin’, ain’t nothin’.” He pauses hesitantly before gesturing for them to get out of the car. “And this ain’t it. My secret place, but we need some shit and an order that’s comin’ in late so we’re usin’ a back up. It’s safe, had it fer years.” 

Jack nods as he observes the tiny windows at the basement level broken in while Brock fished for keys to the door, the windows had wide enough gaps for small framed people to crawl in, bits of clothing snagged at the jagged edgings of glass but nothing worse than that. Inside in the hall, he can’t help but take in the overwhelming smell of stale air and faint notes of mold mixed among the overlay of old garbage; somewhere above them behind thin walls a baby lets out a healthy cry before quieting down quickly. The stairs groan in protest under his weight and the further they climb, the more it threatens to give but Jack knows bad, this is the Ritz in comparison. 

Brock lives on the top floor, the door nondescript like every other one, key silently unlocking to their promised space together and he follows him in when Brock goes inside, hitting the light. “Well, whadda ya think?” 

It’s a minimal space with milk crates and a plank of wood producing a coffee table and a small television standing up on a stack of cinder blocks. The couch is old and ratty, probably something that was perched on a curb or from some charity shop. In the far corner there’s a large stack of National Geographics and another pile beside it, toppled over. It smells more of that very specific gun oil Brock likes to use and those laundry soap smelling air fresheners in here, that and the light gives everything a soft, warm glow instead of out in the hall where everything had a fray of decay.

The fridge in the tiny kitchen makes a rattling noise but works, a card table close by holds folders and maps strewn across it, a handful of over the counter medication and prescription pill bottles dot the back wall in a neat order. The microwave was clearly a model from the late 80’s, clock blinking away with random dash lines in place of numbers and Jack’s not sure if Brock just didn’t bother setting it or if the power went out at some point while he’s been absent. A chipped mug sits upside down in a sad looking dish rack next to the sink, the coffee pot holds a black sludge that had already began sprouting mold.

Jack is busy surveying the one closed door where he assumes is the bedroom and the one partially opened room that’s easily the bathroom while Brock shuts and locks the front. He tosses his overnight bag against the couch and they stand there, hesitating, and Jack can tell this is as far as he got in his plans. His mind overtaken by the priority that he come along, the end game was to get him back, what was next was unknown and he could see the wheels turning in Brock’s head of what to do.

Brock’s hand rests against the couch, the other pulling down his hood and now under the light he looks even more tired. His face is waxy where it suffered from the burns, a little red but it’s still Brock, all familiar and Jack wants to kiss him either way. He does, stepping into his relaxed space and cups his head lightly, careful like he’s always done and it’s easy to coax Brock to tilt his head up just so and press their lips together.

Brock hums this time, a little gravely and worn but the same, melting against him. 

He drops back to sit against the arm of the couch and Jack leans in; they kiss lazily, fingers hesitant to touch but curious, missing the way they always used to memorize each other. It’s nice to finally have this again, to keep Brock close.

“Hey, not that I wanna sound like an ingrate or nothin’ but,” Brock drew in a sigh, interrupting their moment after a while. “But we should- ”

“Get into bed?” Jack mumbles against flushed lips, feeling as Brock smiles and he presses a small kiss at the corner of his mouth, in return he traces his nose along the curve of Brock’s. He’s missed feeling so dumb around Brock, and in love.

“Yeah but, uh..can’t believe I’m sayin’ this..” Brock frowns, fingers tangling into Jack’s jacket.

He can’t help but grin. “Just to sleep. I get it. We’re both tired, Brock. I could use a rest where it’s not half-guarded and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Brock tilts his head up to press another kiss in before he pulls himself up, running a hand through his greasy hair and Jack draws back to give him space before he tries to go for another kiss. He looks so tired and Jack’s unsure of what kind of toll his body has taken. He knows he’s not that far off in need of sleep, despite the nap he took in the car, fatigue creeps in, slow and careful and he knows he won’t stay upright for very long.

“I missed you.” He admits like it’s a secret confession for only Brock to hear, his hands sliding down to rest along his hips.

It makes Brock smile and it’s one of the most perfect things in the world, allowing himself to be pulled in for another kiss.

“I love you.” Brock counters between their lips, hands pressing to Jack’s chest to guide him back through the hallway and against the bedroom door. Inside, the back of Jack’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops back against it, pulling Brock down with him.

“Always trying to one up me.”

Brock smirks and shrugs in nonchalance. 

They kiss again, a little more desperate and needy. It’s hard to let Brock go now that he’s got a tight hold on him and while sleep is coming in a lot stronger now that he’s on something soft, he can’t stop accepting every little bit he’s offered.

“Gonna be hard like this.” Brock admits when they’re too tired to keep it going anymore, mouths flushed and faintly bruised.

“Like what? You’re already hard.”

Brock punches his arm. “I meant bein’ on the run, asshole.”

“Nothing I haven’t done already before.” Jack shrugged. He honestly doesn’t care as long as Brock’s with him and despite his injuries, he was doing well on his own even managing to find him. “Just this time I have you with me.” 

“Sap.” Brock murmurs, eyes half-lidded and voice gentle as he leans in to press their lips together again.

Jack corrals him further onto the bed, tucks them both in after getting their sweaters off and they can’t help keeping the physical contact. Brock’s different; he’s less muscular, lost a decent amount of weight, not too much but it’s clear now that he’s not wearing the bulky clothing. But he’s breathing and _safe_ and it’s all Jack has to reminds himself with before they go for more gentle hazy kisses and his hand dips to the small of Brock’s back.

“Remember when we were in Manila and I lost ya in the slums?” Brock mumbles against his skin a little while later, voice laden with sleep. “Ended up findin’ ya eatin’ _Pagpag_ and wantin’ to adopt a little disabled girl. ‘Ere I’m thinkin’ it’s a simple mission, in and out and somehow we end up fuckin’ losin’ Rollins somehow.”

Jack allows his head to drop back against the pillow and stare up in thought. “Shit, yeah. I remember, I lost the team on a drop and ran into trouble. I thought I had a concussion and then I woke up in the dump. I still don’t know how I got there.” 

Brock snorts. “That was a week of somethin’. Big ass motherfucker like you stickin’ out like a sore thumb, I find ya sittin’ on cold concrete in a tiny hut you can barely fit in with some locals and eatin’ garbage. _Jesus Christ_.” 

“Hey, all they can eat out in the slums is repurposed garbage.” He says firmly, but then he smiles at the memory. 

Manila was nice, good people there. He doesn’t know what happened to the family that took him in for that last evening prior to Brock finding him. He hopes they managed to get some money from some of the gear he purposefully left behind. He rolls over to look at Brock full on, “I’d still adopt that kid.”

“Yer a fuckin’ sap, that’s why.” Brock pauses in thought for a moment. “And an idiot. The second the higher ups found out, they woulda killed ‘er. She was safer where she was left.”

Jack knows it’s true, he doesn’t want to think about it though. 

“What got you thinking about Manila?” He asked instead, attempting to stifle a yawn.

Brock shrugs, he’s seconds from falling asleep, but he smiles at him and reaches out to brush a strand of hair off his forehead, his fingers linger to trace down his scar. “You. Jus knew the second I busted outta that hospital, I knew I’d be able to find ya anywhere jus like how I found ya out there. You taught me how.”

Jack lets his eyes close and he smiles. There’s something about Brock back next to him, warm and alive that really settles him more than any hospital visit did; no more nightmares about losing him to anything and finally, he can rest for the first time in a long time.

He can’t wait to wake up tomorrow, rested and relieved.

Tomorrow.

It's going to be a good day.

Jack finally believes that.


End file.
